


Dial M For Moriarty

by misura



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Crimes & Criminals, Flirting, Gen, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-30
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-11 01:51:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John somehow ends up as the receptionist for Holmes and Moriarty Consultants - for all your crime related needs. (post-season 1 crack-y AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dial M For Moriarty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spoke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spoke/gifts).



There is an astonishing number of people wishing to do away with their wife, husband, mother-in-law, father-in-law, cousin, uncle, aunt, mother or father. (John starts keeping count, and then he starts making monthly rankings, and then he wonders what the hell he's doing, except that Sherlock mutters something about statistics being meaningless and boring, so then of course John can't stop doing it.)

There is a rather smaller number of people wishing to know who might have done away with their wife, husband, and so on and so forth. John keeps count of them in two rows: one for those whose cases Sherlock doesn't take, the other for those whose relatives show up on John's other sheet.

When Sherlock does take a case, John doesn't bother with his numbers and papers.

He just grabs his coat, makes sure he's got his mobile phone with him, and sticks a yellow sticky note on the phone at the office with the words 'DO NOT ANSWER THE PHONE (THAT MEANS YOU, JIM)'.

Mostly, honestly, he prays. When he isn't busy with something else.

 

There is, of course, a perfectly reasonable explanation for John somehow having ended up as the receptionist slash secretary slash administrative assistant slash only bloody normal person in the room for the Holmes and Moriarty Agency that provides 'all kinds of services related to all sorts of crimes' (according to the website, courtesy of 'Jim from IT').

For one, John really didn't have any luck finding any other kind of job. He's almost (but not entirely) sure that this _is_ simply a matter of luck, and possibly one of skills and references and such.

 

"Smuggling," Moriarty says. He keeps telling John to call him 'Jim', but given that he also keeps telling John to try a bit of bombing and an assassination or two, or, if John must insist on being tedious, a nice little bit of arson, John feels it's best to stick with last names. "You got me a smuggling case, John."

When Sherlock is happy, he's nearly ecstatic. It's hard to miss, is John's point, and a bit contagious. Harmless, mostly. With Moriarty, it's rarely that easy.

"Yes?"

Moriarty pouts. "Bo-ring."

A victimless crime, John would rather say - unless you count the good people from Customs who, yes, very important work, no doubt, but John dislikes taxes as much as the next good citizen and he's pretty sure that nobody will die if a few boxes of French cheese or wine or whatever it is people smuggle in from France nowadays enter the country by not entirely legal means.

"It's a crime," John says, attempting to look like it's one he personally very much disapproves of.

"There's no - no _challenge_ to it. No _art_. We could pack a basket and have a picnic on the way."

Once, the sudden shift in subject would have taken John aback. "No, I don't think we will." Now, he spends a moment worrying about Moriarty thinking up new surprises. "I'm not going."

"They're just smugglers, John." Sherlock, trying to - well, John's not sure what Sherlock's trying to do, really, unless it's 'trying to get John to spend more time with a psychotic criminal consultant' which, no, _thank you_. "Might be interesting."

" _My_ case, so back off, Sherlock." And John has heard that voice, that _tone_ \- _'I'll burn the heart out of you, Sherlock'_ , and this is why he will never, ever even _think_ of Moriarty as 'Jim'.

Sherlock shrugs. Moriarty scowls at him and blows John a kiss before he leaves.

 

For two, John would like to know who else could be bloody stupid enough to sign up for the job. It's a win-win situation, really, or possible a lose-lose; him without a job, and them without any other candidates. It's a dirty job, but someone needs to do it, so chin up, old chap.

Or so John tries to tell himself every now and then.

 

"Murder most foul, indeed," Moriarty declares, having helped himself to the pictures Sherlock's left in the (locked) bottom drawer of his desk. (Without, however, putting a sticky note on the drawer with something along the lines of 'DO NOT OPEN (THAT MEANS YOU, JIM)' written on it, which is as good as an invitation where Moriarty is concerned, especially when he's bored.)

"Excuse me," John says, "but you ... don't approve of murder?"

Moriarty sighs. "John. John, John, John."

"Not his work," Sherlock says. There's a splash of blue paint on his left glove. John decides to ask later.

"I don't do 'work'." Moriarty wrinkles his nose, probably not at the smell of paint, although who knows? "I provide guidance, advise, funding, if necessary. I _consult_."

"A veritable saint, you are." John gets bitter, sometimes. He likes to think of himself as a good man - he's killed, yes, for Queen and country and Sherlock. Moriarty is not a good man.

Moriarty beams at him. Sherlock holds out his hand for the pictures. They are handed over easily enough. John wonders what that means, if it means anything at all, other than that Moriarty has seen whatever it is he wanted to see.

"A word to the wise, Sherlock. The man you're looking for - "

"Yes, I know," Sherlock almost snaps.

"A female serial killer." Moriarty sighs. "Sherlock, I'm jealous. Are you sure you won't trade me? Got some lovely cases - might even be a bit of a challenge in one or two, if I only give you half the file."

 

John forgets, sometimes, that Moriarty is smart the way Sherlock is smart (except that he probably knows that bit about the Earth revolving around the Sun).

It doesn't seem right, that someone with a mind like that would be more interested in using it for evil than for good. John knows he might be naive, to feel that way, but he can't help himself. He's not looking for a hero - he's accepted that Sherlock won't accept the role, even if it would fit him, but in any war, there must be a cause worth bearing arms for, a banner to put over the graves, and there are too many days on which John looks at his papers and numbers and today's newspaper and wonders if there really is anything left worth fighting for.

 

(There is, of course there is.)

 

John slams down the newspaper. There's a picture on the front page and everything - in color, even.

Moriarty looks mildly pleased with himself, but then, he usually does, so it's not much of an admission of guilt. "John." There is, John tells himself, quite likely a gun in Moriarty's pocket. A knife, too, possibly.

"You," John says. "You."

Moriarty picks up the paper, unfolds it. Reads a bit of the article. Looks at John expectantly.

"I had some trouble with the pin machine there last week," John says.

"So you did," Moriarty says. "Sherlock was worried, I could tell."

"You can not burn down a supermarket because their pin machine had a malfunction," John says.

Moriarty's eyes are too bright, too happy. They remind John of Harry's eyes, when she's in between being tipsy and being drunk - there's something off, something not quite right, but you can't quite put your finger on what it is, and so most of the time, you just tell yourself you're imagining things.

John is looking at an addict who's just gotten his fix.

"Actually, John," Moriarty says. "I can."

It's not the arson, John thinks. That was last night. Too long ago. "Shouldn't, then," he says, even if he knows that won't work any more than 'can't'. "Someone could have gotten hurt."

"Oh, now you're just being offensive." Moriarty sighs. "Really, John, where's the trust?"

"I don't trust you." John doesn't. It's impossible. He trusts Sherlock, yes - with his life. Not Moriarty.

"Injury to insult," Moriarty says. "Go away, John. Send flowers."

 

"Did you?" Sherlock asks, when John tells him about it later.

John had foolishly hoped for sympathy. "Did I what?"

"Send flowers."

"Of course I didn't send flowers." The idea is absurd. "What would I need to send flowers for?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Would be a pity if he blew up the office."

"A _pity_?" John really is the only one with any sense of perspective around here. It almost makes him doubt his sanity sometimes. "I'd say so, yes. So."

"So," Sherlock echoes, expression slightly puzzled - it's his 'I want to be helpful, but could you please repeat the question or problem in such a way that it will make sense to me why the answer or solution is, in fact, not obvious to you?' face.

"Flowers," John says. "Any specific kind? I'm - I mean, I'm not really a flower-buying kind of guy, if you know what I mean."

"Haven't got the foggiest," Sherlock says. "Is it army slang? Local dialect?"

"Flowers," John says, firmly. "What kind and how many?"

Sherlock looks uncertain. "A dozen red roses is traditional, I believe. I might be wrong."

 

On the inside of the card John includes with the roses, he puts a small sticky note with 'DON'T DO IT AGAIN. I MEAN IT, JIM.' written on it, because in writing, Moriarty is always Jim.

(He ignores the message, otherwise.)

(Moreso than he would anyway)

 

John thinks it's even odds between Moriarty killing them all more or less on purpose (he might be sorry after), Sherlock killing them all by accident (an experiment gone wrong, or an investigation) and John going insane. Sooner or later, something's going to give, is what he's saying.

For the moment, he supposes this is as bad as it gets, and possibly also as good.


End file.
